Bucky
by Kytheres
Summary: Set a little after the snippet after Captain America: The Winter Soldier end credit snippet. Bucky finds himself at the Smithsonian, looking for clues to his past and trying to regain some of his memory. After some upsetting events, a certain group- and two men- start looking for the friend/ asset. Contains spoilers.


Falling. The only real thing he remembered from that time. It was cold. Dark. Snow fell like angel's tears that were so cold they had turned into ice. He remembered the pain of getting his arm ripped off by something, but he couldn't remember what. Blood.

Blood on snow. Blood that pooled around him and drowned out the whiteness.

His body shut down from the cold.

Memories were no longer important. He could no longer remember why he had been in that freezing weather. After he had woken up from that tormenting dream, they had taken him and put something on him, and then stuck him in a freezer until he became a human icicle.

His arm.

Left arm. Always the left. He could feel something there. He could. He tried to look down at his arm. His neck wouldn't move. Like it was stuck in place. Like it was frozen.

He grunted in pain, and tried to stop it. Warm tears flooded down his face from the pain.

They had injected something into him. It didn't work. Nothing worked. Nothing was going to get rid of this immense pain. He gripped the bit in his mouth even after the surgery was over.

A doctor tried taking it out of his mouth, but the little German man waved him away after watching the doctor try to take it away from him.

"It is vine. Do not worry about it. Let him keep the thing. He is still in immense pain from the surgery." The man leaned forward. "Aren't you?"

The man on the operating table glared at the one in front of him, gripping the bit tightly in his teeth.

"I suppose you will need zumthing like that for zhe future. Perhaps I shall get zumthing like it?"

"Who are you? What is your name?"

"Barnes… James Buchanan. Sergeant."

Pain flooded his chest, and he gasped, trying to breath for air that wasn't coming.

"That is not your name."

Bucky glared at the man in front of him. "Who's to say otherwise?"

The muscular man in front of him stepped forward and slapped Bucky across the face. "I am."

"What is your name?"

Something gripped his tongue, but he couldn't figure out what it was. It was like searching for a memory that desperately needed to be found, but wanted to play cat and mouse, make the victim work for it.

"What is your name?" the voice repeated.

The man strapped to the reclinable chair didn't bother looking at the speaker. He'd just get beat again. Go weeks without food. Like he got very much anyway.

"I don't know."

"What is your status?"

Again, the man repeated, "I don't know."

"Do you know who you are?"

The man's eyes closed, as if trying to remember. Finally he said, "No."

"Good."

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Training every day. Forced labor. Reconstructive surgery on his arm. Metal attachments.

He was getting used to it.

The mask.

Constricting. Breathing hard.

Goggles.

Poor eyesight.

The Mask.

Used to.

Goggles.

Used to.

Mission.

Kill.

Destroy.

Eliminate.

Shoot.

Mark.

Target. 

Russian. Most common.

German. Used somewhat often.

English. Rare. 

No mirrors in the room with the chair.

No pictures. Who cared about pictures in a place like this.

Rare.

Gun to head. Cocked back. Safety off.

Looks like suicide.

Milk. What was milk?

The man in front of him was his boss.

Higher-up. Lead man.

General.

"Kill her."

Extinguish.

Destroy.

Eliminate.

Kill.

Never murder.

"Bucky?"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

Names.

He never had one. "The Asset."

That was what they called him, not what he was named. He didn't have a name.

Until they started calling him the Winter Soldier.

That's what he was called. Not what he was named.

He didn't have a name.

The Winter Soldier was born in a place of cold cement walls and broken windows. 

He'd never had a name.

"Bucky."

Memories that have no place here

Are long gone to the past

A broken life

That is easily forgotten

Falling toward oblivion

He didn't dream. He couldn't dream. He never thought. He didn't need to.

"Kill everything that gets in your way."

That was his only thought.

"Finish the mission."

That was his only thought.

Poked and prodded with steel barbs

That are sharper than words can remind

Nothing to be carried over

All memories are lost to the void

Of oblivion's deathly decay

There was no use in being reminded about that man. That man in blue with the… circle. Disk.

Punching it had done nothing.

"That man on the bridge…"

Something inside his head resurfaced long enough to get his attention. He remembered the man's face.

"I knew him."

"Bucky…"

Thoughts long lost to the sin of forgetting

All things are tragic,

But memory is crucial to living

What had he been thinking as he fell?

What emotions came up?

Disappointment? Anger?

Frustration? Sorrow?

Fear. Regret. Loss. Tragedy. Heartbreak.

Fear of dying. Fear of being lost in the cold darkness of the wilderness. Fear of getting eaten alive.

Regret of losing a friend. Regret of not being able to help more.

Loss of a good arm. Loss of a friend. Loss of freedom.

Tragedy.

Heartbreak.

What good are emotions if not put into words?

Broken neck? Was that why he couldn't move it? He had broken his neck and they had fixed it, although he could no longer move it?

What about his arm?

What had happened to that? How had it…

Doctor Zola padded his way into the metal room with his favorite test subject. It had been a surprise to find such a specimen and be able to capture him from under the noses of those idiot Americans. He smiled at the thought. He would make a great soldier. The lights were dim, and the light outside was distinguishing dramatically. But here he was. Able to play with a man's mind until the subject was unable to think straight.

Test subject.

It was that fool, Captain America's friend, or so the man kept spouting. Finally he had injected him with a sedative that would calm his nerves enough to actually have a decent conversation with him.

"What is your name?"

"Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant."

Repeating it as he had been taught. Like a good little American Soldier.

_Just wait until you can't remember your own name._

It is no use thinking about the future if you cannot remember the past.

Getting locked in cryo was little taking an extended nap while still partially awake. The arm was like an irritating itch that wouldn't go away, but he knew that if he tried to take it off, it either wouldn't work, or he would die.

Scratch the extended nap.

They had drugged him.

It was like getting buried alive.

He was a Sergeant. His best friend was a Captain. He had been forced. His friend had been lucky.

Unfortunate.

He was a good shot, but she was a good soldier.

He managed to nick her hip.

Knowing nothing. Remembering nothing. Lying in a chair with a bit of plastic shoved into his mouth and trying to remember to breath. Not having a name.

Never having one.

Never needing one.

Always names, never faces.

Always faces, never names.

Always shooting, always punching, always killing.

Always killing.

The pain never stopped. Do one thing wrong and they'd beat you.

Screw up and they'd wipe you.

Flinch and they'd electrocute you. Shoot live rounds intentionally, missing until you stopped.

Then they'd shoot. Then you'd kill.

Then you'd be wiped, and the process repeated until they had to get more guys.

Until all the mannequins were reduced to shreds and red, white, and black were the only colors you saw.

Scars went everywhere.

Arms. Legs. Torso. Abdomen. Thigh.

Entry and exit.

Handgun and sniper. Banana clip and full-auto.

Even a missile launcher.

Blow up an electrical tower and then rebuild it sending all the right frequencies to the nation's capital.

Learning Russian by force and not understanding a lick of English for the longest time.

Arm had a few scrapes, but nothing brutal.

Right one had scars with stories nobody could remember.

I sleep with the wolves in my head

Spewing howls no one else can hear

Trains bring back thoughts no one can touch

Electricity tears it away like a hurricane ripping a house from the ground

A million lives are lost in my one

I live with the wolves in my head

That whisper roars and wish me dead

I killed a man right in front of his daughter.

She screamed and watched with terrified horror as I left the door on the floor of his apartment. She screamed and screamed after I left.

If I had a conscience, it has long left my thoughts or been destroyed by some other freak of nature. I pay no need to memories, because they do nothing to help me. I do not need memories any more.

All they do is distract me.

If I had a conscience, it would have told me, "Screw you," thousands of times.

I cannot think, thus I do not need a conscience. All I have are orders.

Brooklyn.

Some place with the same name.

A friend.

An enemy.

A mission.

Something to kill.

A target.


End file.
